


7 days

by arlesanna



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos POV, F/M, for milathos appreciation week on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlesanna/pseuds/arlesanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot can change in 7 days (set during season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Emotion

I order the wine and I wait. She will come or she won’t, but I’m pretty sure she will. It’s become a habit of hers to ruin my evenings with her presence and it makes me sick to my stomach, but it’s become a habit of mine too. Bad habits are to easy to fall into, i think, and she is worse than wine, worse than any drug I could have chosen to be my exile from the reality I wake up to every day, she’s my fucking damnation and I sit here alone in a shitty tavern on the outskirts of Paris where my friends could never find me but she will easily.

“Are you hiding or are you waiting?” She asks as she sits down on the opposite side of the table, reaching for my wine cup.

This time I move faster and grab her hand before she can stain my wine with her perfect lips. I grip it tight, tighter then necessary, tight enough to cause her pain and I see the pain flash in her eyes even though she would not admit to in, her face is relaxed and I find myself willing to crush her inappropriately soft hand just to see her face become honest for a minute. Even if it’s honest in pain. I let go instead and I resent myself for missing the warmth of her hand immediately. But that’s just the thing with her. With us. Let her get close and I hurt her, break her and if I don’t… She’d use my hesitance to do the same to me and she will succeed beautifully, not that there’s much of me left to break, but I’m trying, damn it, and maybe I am trying just to keep it interesting for her. That’s not true of course, but the thought is ironic enough to make me smile.

“Get your own.” I slur at her and she is angry because I hurt her. Because I waited for her and then she had to get too close to my wine and I hurt her and we both know it’s not about the stupid wine. She should leave now for her own good because I will hurt her again, I will hurt her more, I will hurt her deeper. Because I wake up into this reality every day and then I remember and I want to hurt her so that we once again share the same feeling. If she has feelings, this impossible woman, which is highly questionable.

She doesn’t leave. She asks the waitress for the wine and I realise I’ll have to suffer through the evening in her company. Well, alas. I wish I was unhappy about it, but I know myself too well. I will suffer through the evening and I will enjoy it because that’s who I am now. And I’ll make sure she suffers through it no less and I will enjoy that as well. I have a suspicion that she would enjoy it too, because that’s exactly how fucked up this whole thing is.


	2. Day 2: The Past

“Nice to see you’ve started without me.” She says and I laugh because she’s late and I’m already drunk.

“Long day?” I ask casually as if this is not at all what this is and she raises her eyebrow at me, her perfect eyebrow is perfectly evil and I have to shut my eyes for a second because if I keep looking I might just reach for it and she will let me for she lets me get away with too much lately and I will be lost in her once again. I bet this is what she’s aiming for. Why does she need it, that’s the question.

She doesn’t answer, she orders wine instead. I wonder what is it going to be tonight? Last night was biting words and angry remarks, and now all we have is silence and there’s nothing to hold on to in the silence, feels like a free fall. Her face is stubborn and I can’t see through it. My face is hidden in the shadows and the hat is helpful, but I still have a feeling she can see through the shadows, through the hat, through me. Maybe she can. I wonder if there’s anything to see there, or if maybe the shadows and the hat are all there is. And maybe she can’t see shit and is as lost as I am in this silence. There were times we didn’t need words, but then it turned out she lied with words and without them. Lying without words should be punishable by death, or at least that’s what I thought then. I was an idiot and she was a cheat and we deserved each other no less then we do now, but the silence is too much to take.

“Do you have nightmares?” I ask her and I know immediately I’ve hit the bull’s eye: her whole frame shudders as if I’d hit her. Good.

“Do you?” Her voice is seething with malice and the game is on. I find my grip on the wine cup tighten, like I need something to hold on to.

“Yes. I dream that you didn’t die that day and come back to haunt me every evening.”

She laughs then and I find myself pleased. When did her crimes and my crimes become reasons for laughter? Never mind, this is good. The wine is good and my wife is laughing at me. Something must be right with the world.

“You’re drunk.” She states and her eyes turn dark and serious. This can’t be good. “Can I ask you an honest question? Has the wine disarmed you enough to consider answering?”

I should say no, but I hesitate and hesitation is of course a yes.

“Do you ever think that you could have been wrong? Too quick to judge? Too angry? That you burned the very best thing in your miserable existence and mine for the matter? Do you, noble Comte?”

“Every fucking day.” The words leave my mouth and it’s too late to catch them. Her stunned expression is my reward for the pain that rises in my chest. The pain that I wake up every day to, the pain that calls for wine and sometimes drugs. The pain she is going to kick me in right now, no doubt, and I wonder if I’d survive the blow.

The blow doesn’t come.

“Good.” She says instead and leaves me alone.

No suffering through the evening tonight, then. Pity.


	3. Day 3: Passion

I shouldn’t have kissed her in Rochefort’s study.

And she shouldn’t have allowed it.

I shouldn’t be following her in the dark on her way to wherever it is she’s staying now.

And she shouldn’t be allowing it.

“Do feel free to join me, Athos, since you’ve already invited yourself along.” She throws at me over her shoulder and I smirk as I walk faster to catch up with her. This is an invitation she shouldn’t have extended and I shouldn’t have taken, but who cares now. I wonder what she would do if I took her hand in mine, like I did so many times years ago in another life. Would she allow me that too? I’m afraid that she would so I restrain myself from doing it.

We reach our destination and it’s not at all what I could have expected. Turns out she lives in a two-story mansion overlooking the river, not that far from Louvre. It’s warm inside and the maid welcomes us, looking at Milady with utter adoration and at me with suspicion. I wonder what this house is. I wonder how she can afford the maid and the wood to keep the mansion warm. I wonder how many men she brings here.

I will myself not to ask questions yet. She leads me through the house and I take in the large rooms with huge windows, the expensive furniture, the luxurious carpets and paintings on the walls. It’s not entirely her style so she can’t have been here long, i think. We end up in her bedroom. Of course we do.

“King’s generosity.” She swirls happily in the centre of a large and beautiful room. “Like it?”

“So your help wasn’t unconditional after all?” I feel like a fool all over again and nothing’s new. I want to bang my head on the nearest wall covered in expensive silk for believing she was on the path of redemption for once, like I didn’t know her at all, like I didn’t know she only did things for her own benefit, like I forgot why she married me in the first place.

“Of course not.” She smiles and I desperately want to kiss her again, just to wipe that smug look on her face. Kissing has proved the most efficient method to get to her yet. “But at least I’m on your side now.”

“For now.” I correct her and we both know it makes all the difference.

“Always, you fool.” She snaps and some unholy force pushes me to grab her roughly, pushes me to believe her this once. I really shouldn’t. I stay silent when she whispers, wincing from the strength of my grip: “I never lied about us, Olivier.”

That’s not enough, not by any measure. I let it be enough. She is right, I’m a bloody fool.

She searches for my lips and I give in to what I hope to be passion but what turns out to be tenderness. Passion burns, but tenderness cuts into the soul like nothing else and I shouldn’t let it, I’d rather burn, but it seems I have no choice.

She shivers when my hands touch her bare skin and I know it can’t be fake, she would have to be a satan’s child to pretend like this, and it’s easy to believe that she is, except she is just a woman in my arms, so I let myself be a man in hers, not the empty shell of Comte De La Fere I keep wearing around me like a cloak. A man and a woman, we are entwined in tenderness and it’s freeing in it’s simplicity. For tonight.


	4. Day 4: Trust

I wake up to a dagger at my throat. Her eyes are wary and recognise the look: had I woken up first I’d be the one wearing it. So the magic is over. Who could have guessed.

“Explain.” I say without clarifying. There are too many things she needs to explain, so I let her choose freely.

She kisses me instead, the blade still pressed agains my skin, dangerous and arousing like all the things about her.

“It’s nice to know you trusted me enough to fall asleep here,” she breaks the kiss and the dagger dances on my skin, down alongside my chest, stopping over my heart. “I could kill you just now.” One thing Anne was always good at is pillow talk, nice to know that hasn’t changed at least.

“Why don’t you?” I ask and it’s an honest question on my part - god knows the woman has more reasons to hate me then anyone else. If my treason of our marriage did as much harm to her as her treason did to me, I wouldn’t blame her if she did cut my throat right here, after having me worship her all night, silently begging for forgiveness with my body, my hands, my lips, my tongue, because there is no way to ask forgiveness for this, not really, not with words anyway. I would not blame her if she spilled my blood over the sheets that belong to the King of France who I swore to protect and who I wanted to strangle for being so close to her. Another sin to add to the long list of mine. I would not blame her if she put an end to this once and for all, for I couldn’t when I had the chance and I know that I never will. Wouldn’t be a bad way to go after the night we had. A final supper before the fall.

“It’s just nice to know that I could.” She smiles like a predator and I sit up abruptly, pushing against the dagger resting above my heart, and she barely manages to get it out of the way so that I don’t impale myself on it. Barely - there’s now a long scratch on my chest, red and angry, quickly filling with blood. She hisses in anger as I pull her closer and get lost in her scent, her warmth, her lips. My blood is marking her white lacy shirt, making her look like a tainted angel, her lips red from my vicious attack and it’s wanton and it drives me crazy. But not as much as her grabbing a fistful of my hair and pulling my head back, growling in my ear:

“I lived with the knowledge that I had you killed for a couple of days. I don’t ever want to again. If you want to die, please, do without my help.”

“Try five years, then we’ll talk,” I feel her grip on my hair loosen and I pull her closer, impossibly close, I might hold her too tight, tight enough to bruise her, but now’s not the time for tenderness. Now is the time for need and she seems to be as greedy as I am. Maybe later, after we have the need figured out we could start on trust. Maybe.


	5. Day 5 - Together

I miss her.

Our whole world is crumbling around us, the Queen is in danger, we don’t have any proof that Rochefort is a traitor while the King is being brainwashed by that lunatic, moreover Aramis is locked up in prison and Constance is about to be executed.

And I miss her.

The understanding that if I miss her in in the midst of all that then it must for once truly mean something flashes in my mind before I shut it down. Now is not the time to miss her. 

I still do of course.

Later that day when D’Artagnan mentions her with distaste I find myself wanting to shove his tone back into his throat and once again I shut that line of thought down. He does have a reason to use that tone against the woman who threatened Constance’s life and the lives of many others. My own sentiments towards said woman are irrelevant. I think I even manage not to scowl at him, but I am not sure. He doesn’t seem to notice anyway, probably he assumes that I’m scowling at the mention of her name or because the scowl on my face is something of an ordinary thing now. My mind drifts back to the time when it wasn’t so, when I was different, when I was young, foolish, oblivious. Irrevocably my mind wanders into dangerous territory - to the time I was with Anne and we were happy. Together.

And I bloody miss her.

I offer to talk to her of course and as I leave to find her I’m annoyed with myself for being so damn exited about it. This should be different. I should be different, feel different: I should be indifferent but I am not. I’m sure I can get away with pretence:  faking indifference is the art I’ve mastered as well as the art of a sword fight. But the only person I can’t seem to fool is myself with my stupid heart beating too fast for it’s own good and my stupid lungs needing more air then they should be able to go on.

Angry with myself I knock at her door and the maid lets me in.

I can hear the sound of the piano and my stupid heart clenches and my damn brain serves me another unnecessary memory.

_She is playing the piano, wrapped up in a white sheet, her hair still up from the party, still dishevelled from my hands after the party. I sneak up on her and I fall onto my knees behind her, wrapping my hands around her narrow waist, my lips are on her shoulder, her back, my teeth pulling the sheet down._

I smile  at the memory of how her hands faltered then, right before I got up, scooped her in my arms and carried her to the bed. I asked her who taught her to play and she said it was her mother.

As I look at her now, lost in her thoughts and a sad melody she’s playing I can’t help but wonder if she lied about that too.

“Come.” She says and her hands do not falter, because over the years she must have become as prone in feigning indifference as I am.

I come to stand behind her and I fight the urge to send indifference to hell and kneel like I did many years ago and just be here, together, and forget about reality for a while. Too bad that could cost Aramis his life and France it’s Queen.

“Miss me?” She asks casually and I find myself wishing to hear hope in her voice, but this is merely an enquiry.

I wonder if I have the right to miss her, if I have any right at all after everything that transpired between us in the past.

I wonder if last night was a hello or a farewell for her, because I sure hoped that it would be the final resolution, us coming together one last time to let it all out, and damn, didn’t we let it all out? The cut over my heart burns with every step I take, proving to me that any more and wouldn’t have survived each other, but for some reason it seems it was not enough for me.

Because I miss her indeed.

I miss us. Together. Even if we can’t survive each other in the end.

I can see my hand hovering over the graceful line of her neck as she keeps playing, my fingers longing to touch the fair skin. I’m angry once again, at her for looking so deceptively pure in the rays of light that illuminate her skin, her dress, her hair, for playing this enticing lazy melody and at my stupid hand for attempting to give me away while I might have no right to even burden her with whatever this is.

“Aramis needs your help.” I say and her hands falter.

“Of course he does.”


	6. Day 6: Another Universe

My head hurts. I try to open my eyes, fighting the dull ache drilling through my scull. It’s a new day, it’s a new life, hello ice bucket.

As I make my way through the crowded streets of Paris I wonder if this is what my life is going to be now. If getting myself too drunk to think in the evenings and dragging myself out of bed in the mornings, spending the day trying to get myself killed and not to get my friends killed, then waiting for the evenings so I can get myself too drunk to think is all I have to look up to for the rest of my miserable existence. That and the war with Spain, how exiting.

She was wrong for giving me an ultimatum, she was right for letting me know she wanted me to choose us. I was right for putting my duty to France above all, I was wrong for not letting her know I would choose us over anything. I was wrong for not letting her know that the only reason I didn’t was because it was not the right thing to do at the time. Because had I fled with her, “us” would have become forever marred by regrets and pangs of conscience hunting me, and I wanted to keep “us” clean, untouched, treasured. I might have cocked “us” up irrevocably all the same, so much for good intentions.

“You three. My office. Now.” I bark a touch too loudly at young musketeers having a chat in the garrison yard. I regret it in that very instant as the pain in my head multiplies from the sound of my own voice. “What are the news?” I ask much more carefully, quieter, hoping to make a deal with my own hangover. Not that it’s easy to negotiate with.  

“Nothing much, Sir.” One of the group begins going through everything that happened since yesterday which is indeed not much and it’s really hard to concentrate on his words, until something catches my attention.

“Say that again?” I interrupt him, my heart racing.

“I said our messenger came back from La Havre this morning - he couldn't leave the port because of the war - now everyone who wants to leave the country needs a special permit from the King. So we’re getting one and he’s leaving today, but it means the letter will be delayed by…”

“I have to go.” I say, already on my way out.

Did she have the permit, I wonder. Did she make it in time to leave before they closed the sea, I wonder. What do I tell her, I wonder as I knock on her door.

“Milady’s not in, Sir.” The maid eyes me with distaste. My head is suddenly clear, my throat dry. She’s here, I could bet my life on it.

“Show her this.” I hand the glove to the maid and wait. Several minutes later I’m invited into the living room.

She’s a vision in her light green dress decorated with streaks of gold, her hair is pulled up and her expression is stern. She looks positively royal while I stand there looking like help, dishevelled and rough in my dusty leather uniform, lost for words and still hungover from my attempt to drink her off my mind last night.

“I hear congratulations are in order, Captain.” Her green eyes are on fire, her tone unforgiving.

I know this tone all too well. It means we’re ignoring the glove and the obvious reason I have it in my possession. It means we’re ignoring the fact that she asked me to come away with her yesterday. It means we’re ignoring the fact that I was in her bed the day before yesterday and many other facts before that. It means we’re back to square one. Good job, Athos, I congratulate myself mentally. Also she seems to be under the impression my pitiful state came from celebrating my commission as Captain. Perfect. I really couldn’t have dug myself in deeper if I tried.

“You said I’d never see you again.” I hear myself make a feeble attempt at sarcasm and my stomach turns. Of all the things I meant to say I choose this? I’m supposed to be explaining my reasoning to her right now, but my reasoning seems damn stupid in the wake of her impeccable stature and her eyes blazing with anger so my stupid brain opts for defensive. And as a true musketeer I attack her instead of blocking her preemptive strike (that was quite justified I must say). I should have never joined the bloody regiment in the first place, it stripped me of all my manners. And now I get to watch her expression harden even more at my words.

“And you once said you’d kill me if you ever saw me again. It seems we are both prone to breaking our promises.”

Not to mention the promises we made to each other as husband and wife, I think, but thankfully my mouth stays shut and this one doesn’t get out.

“Resurrection and broken promises. I wonder if there’s anything else we have in common.” I smile nervously and for some reason it works. Her eyes soften and she answers with an honest smile of her own. It’s a tiny, unsure, uncalculated smile, disarming and perfect.

She really shouldn't do this more often - when she smiles at me like this it does strange things to my heart and makes me want to sell my soul to the devil just so she never stops. It’s an addiction, the kind that you can never get rid of, no matter how much you try. I went five years without it and then she smiles at me like this and I feel the rush, the high and I’m as hung up on this as ever before.

“I genuinely want to find out,” I continue, the distance between us disappearing with every step I take towards her as her eyes light up, giving me another rush of high, urging me to move faster, to cup her cheek with my hand, “for five years I wondered that maybe somewhere in another universe I’m a better man and you are alive and we are happy together.” Her eyes water and I will myself to go on instead of kissing her then and there, “Destiny is giving us a second chance, Anne, but this time around we’re going to do it right, you and I.”


	7. Day 7: the future

“No.” I growl as I pull my wife down on the bed beside me once again. She laughs and pretends to fight me as I bring her even closer and nuzzle her neck.

“I have to go. You have to go, you have your duty.”

I don’t care.

“I don’t care.” I say and it feels freeing to be able to say whatever it is I really think. “Ten more minutes.”

“You’re my vice, you know that? I can never refuse you anything.” She mutters as she settles back in by my side, her warmth back where it belongs to. I smirk as I stroke her cool skin: her vice, i like that. I’d take that over Captain duty any time of the day not to mention the war with Spain. Bloody timing couldn’t have been worse.

As I feel her melt against me, her hair tickling my neck, I wonder if this is what my life is going to be now. If waking up next to her in the mornings and spending the day trying not to get myself killed on the job I chose so recklessly, longing for the evenings to feel her long fingers curl around my neck as she pulls me down to her lips, longing to hear her voice, her laughter, her moans is what the future holds for me. I could live with that. Happily ever after.

She distracts me with her lips leaving a trail down my chest.

“I said ten minutes.” I remind her, but she doesn’t stop.

“I don’t care.” She purrs instead and I know she means it.

This is one of the most honest conversations we’ve had in our lifetime, I think and I choke on the irony of it.

“Finally.” I breathe out, pleased to have ruined her composure.

She chuckles and takes her revenge on me and for once revenge is sweet indeed.

We may have the trust thing figured out after all, I muse and then I am lost in her, to her, all coherent thoughts gone, banished from my mind, all but one:

I am so looking forward to a lifetime of this.


End file.
